Flames
by AdiemusLover56
Summary: 5 years into the future. Homer's crazy, Marge is afraid of her won shadow, Bart's sunk even lower, and Lisa's lost hope. Maggie is the only sane one left. She explains one nightmare come true that changes everything in her life. Read to find out what! Hint: guest starring Cecil Terwilliger! And Sideshow Bob later on! Rated M for some language and violence.
1. Prologue

**Prologue of a kinda dark Simpsons story. Using Sideshow Cellophane's **_**Life**_** story later on, with a bad guy (if you've read it, you know who I'm talking about) from it. But it's about Cecil Terwilliger's life (Sideshow Bob's brother), and he's definitely going to be in here. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Mom, _may I_ have a cigarette?" she said this as if it hurt. Probably did, knowing her.

"Not in front of Maggie—

_Always as if I'm not here_

"She's only six. Go smoke in the park."

Lisa made a huffing sound. "Why not in the back yard? Or is it 'cause you're afraid Flanders'll see me?"

"It's because I'm ashamed to have a daughter who smokes thirteen years into life! You're going to die of lung cancer at twenty!"

"Hey, I have…" she counted on her fingers, "8 years then!"

"You have seven, Lis," I said, "seven years if it is so." But she didn't hear me from my corner on the sofa. It was so sad. I can still recall how smart she used to be. Sometimes I ponder over what happened. Maybe puberty? Just being a Simpson? The will to learn was lost when Moe had a heart attack, and Moe's closed, causing the black market to open?

"Listen…just go," mother said softly. She was a bit too soft, I guess. If Lisa weren't stronger and older, than I would definitely tell her what she has become.

"Fine. Be back at usual time, I guess."

_One day, she just gave up. Just like a snap, she threw away a promising life. Bart isn't any better. Hell, he's worse!_

Lisa left, and mother walked back into the kitchen. "Maggie, come help me," she called.

"Coming, mother," I got up and went in. This was the dangerous part. Everything _had_ to be absolutely _perfect_ for Daddy. The last thing I needed today was another lesson, with what was coming. It was already gonna be hard.

We started on his favorite steak dinner, with mashed potatoes and two of Mother's famous death-by-chocolate cakes. We were thinking about pumpkin pie, my favorite, but it was (and I quote) "too healthy."

Usually, it was just her and I in the house until dinner, when everybody would come in within ten minutes of us laying out the food, but Bart got here early. With his exact same bottle of pills. _Always_ with the pills. When nobody was around, Mother called them "drugs," but that was when she was 100% sure even Mr. Flanders wasn't around. Otherwise, Daddy would teach her a lesson, too. He only did it to us, though, but we deserved it. Everything needed to be perfect. He taught us all that.


	2. Life, Wandering Child

**If anybody read the beginning, I'd appreciate something in return if you like this (*_coughareviewcough_*). It's a horrible summary, but things should pick up now.**

* * *

We were all seated at the table now. Daddy had just arrived, drunk as a skunk. We learned to know that when he was like this, you act perfect, and you make everything else perfect. Even Bart and Lisa, who were normally sarcastic 100% of the time, learned to keep their mouths shut during Daddy's episodes.

So we were all seated at the table, waiting for him to approve. With a curt nod, the tension broke up and a little small-talk broke out.

"So. Maggie, what did you make on your science test?" he asked me. We always sat beside each other, because no one else would.

The beer—due to a horrific accident—made him lose his sanity. It affected him when he was sober, and it affected him when he was drunk. I learned a long time ago that he was the most dangerous when drunk because he seemed . . . almost smarter than he was when sober.

I froze. The question I had dreaded the entire day. My knuckles turned white, I was gripping the fork so hard. I gently put it down and turned to him. "I made a 92, Daddy."

"And that is…?"

"A B+. I made a B+ on my test."

Everyone froze. Nobody looked up at us; nobody even tried to help me. Daddy set his piece of steak down. He never used a fork or knife, just his fingers and tongue.

I shut my eyes just in time. The hit sent me flying off my chair, towards the wall. "_What have I __**told**__ you about your goddamn school grades?!" _he got up and shrieked at me. I didn't dare let the tear building up in my eye loose.

_ "_N-never make anything less than an A, I know that, but-"

"_But NOTHING! It's bad enough those two brats make Cs and lower, but we expect the best out of you! YOU are the ONLY one to provide for this screwed family, and I'm NOT going to do all of it myself! Now __**GO TO THE GARAGE!**__"_

I picked myself up, cringing at the pain in my head, and ran to the garage. Nobody tried to follow. None of them cared. It was "you're on your own" in this house. Maybe that's why everybody is so miserable. The family is pointless now, we aren't close. Lisa has gone from being a straight A+ student to a depressed slob, even dying her hair black and cutting it short. Dumb blonde jokes got her, you know? She's pretty much let go of all her knowledge of anything, even her unending love for Shakespeare. Hell, she smokes in class and gave up jazz for heavy metal. She sold her sax for extra spending money _(drugs)_. It's pretty bad.

But Bart… he's much, _much_ worse if you can believe it. Being on drugs has completely changed him, from a junior delinquent to a just plain psychopath. Being only 15, he has dropped out of high school. He has no idea who I am half the time and no idea what he's been doing after three hours of doing it. Millhouse, that kid who used to be his best friend, is now hanging out with some other kid, Martin I think. Even the three bullies (they're always repeating the fifth grade) think that Bart's too bad for them. I think the reason Sideshow Bob has stopped trying to kill him is because he knows the affects of drugs, and the hell you go through. It would be a blessing to kill Bart now, not only for him but for all of us.

Anyways, back to my corner. I already knew that I would be punished for getting a B, so I prepared. There was an apple hidden under a bag of mulch, along with _Macbeth_, my personal favorite book. I snuggled up against the bag and wall, trying to get comfortable. The pieces kept digging into my back, protesting against my weight. I shifted, and the pain wasn't as bad as my face anymore. There was going to be a bruise there tomorrow.

For now, I guess I'll just fall asleep. Nobody will let me out of here until morning, anyway. With my head settled on a soft patch of plastic, I shut my eyes, dreaming…of my castle on a cloud. I started singing it softly to myself, dreaming of the family before Moe died.

_She says, "Margret, I love you very much…"_

_**1**_

Mother woke me up. I groaned, and with a yelp, scrambled up. It was 6:43 already! I needed to fix Daddy's breakfast, get dressed, brush my teeth, fix my own little lunch, and get out of my pink apron and into my usual blue dress shirt and black sweat pants. It was the only thing I really had to wear, along with a bright blue headband.

The morning rushed past, like a car speeding down an empty highway at 80 miles an hour. Daddy came downstairs and mumbled something to me that I couldn't make out. _Hangover._ Nonetheless: "yes daddy."

"And make sure you clean the windows too!"

"Yes sir!" I called back. He still had his job at the nuclear power plant, though lost the place as head of sector 7G. Because of that, I was now home-schooled. Mother didn't even try to teach Bart. Everything went in one ear and out the other with him. And really, she didn't try too much with me, either. I taught myself most everything I know, except how to cook. Due to Lisa's old school books and notes, I learned Shakespeare, types of edible plants, all types of plants, and how to survive. I learned several scientific words, words not even she understood anymore. I stopped using them a while back since all that anybody would say to me was "what?" or "huh?" plus, daddy would give me a slap for acting smarter than him.

Technically, I could run away and survive…it's a nice thought, but no. if I were to run away, mother would die.

_**2**_

I still couldn't believe it. How had the Simpsons turned out this way? Lisa had been such a nice frenemy, and shared the Terwilliger's cunning knowledge. Now…just a Simpson. At least Bart got the worst half, going on drugs. I always knew Marge would turn out to be a mouse, and I most certainly knew what Homer would be. Hey, he was the one who helped create that black market, hadn't he? Or that nicotine beer?

I shuddered at the thought. But no, I wasn't here for any of them. Robert had written to me from Italy, believe it or not, and had asked me to check on their state. After five years, he's still a bit obsessed. Well, now that I knew, I had written back to him. But now, a refreshed craving back in place screaming at me, I wanted a _challenge_. And all that nature could provide for me was the youngest. Maggie was her name.

A six year old as a challenge? Isn't that just a little weird, even for me? Hey, a challenge is a challenge. My job at the dam was excruciating, having to deal with all of those damned red necks, but it was a challenge. However, I crave the delicate touch of _fear_. Of seeing the terror thrust upon a little one's face as I hold the knife to her throat. Not the look on Cletus's face when I accuse him and several of his cousins for blowing up part of a dam. Six or no, she's as smart as my old foe was, and it's good enough for me. The only reason why I haven't made my appearance yet was because of what was _done_ to that poor thing. I always knew how Homer would turn out, but _beating_ a child? And nobody even _helped_ her when he got that way. If she were so smart, why doesn't she just—

A bird chirping brought me out of my inner thoughts. Looking up to the trees surrounding me, I felt a sense of relief for the freedom. _Four years_. _Four years in that hell-hole._ Prison still gives me nightmares every night. Aside from the ones about my brother killing me, jail is enough to keep you busy day-dreaming about the cardboard they'd serve as food, the prison suits that came in one size too small, and the…*_shudder_* prisoners

(_roommates_)

who were there for raping some four-year-old in an alley. It was the memory of thinking about your dead family while your roommate did things never to be spoken of again that gave me _true_ fear. It was after we were all

_(Bob's family and mother and father)_

separated from one another that gave us all our minds back. At least mine was. After Bob's last failed attempt, he and his _family_ decided to make a fresh start somewhere else. Mother and father decided to go back to London. Not even a good-bye; they just picked up and left. And I? I stayed here, for only God knows why. Stocks gave me a fair amount of money, enough to rent out the same dwelling I had had before prison.

I finally spotted the bird. It was a robin, wings spread apart, to rest in the sun. It gave one more chirp, and put them into use. I watched it fly away, reminded once again of my family. In a trance, I began to follow, lost it, and just wandered. I had nowhere to be today. No rush to get home. No rush to stop the yokels from blowing anything up. Just…no rush.

So I started to go from tree to tree, touching each one as though it were a hurt person, and let my mind wander. It helped me forget the pain and suffering.

I began to sing to myself the first song that came to mind. I wasn't exactly paying attention, the words just came out, but I think it was some Broadway song_. "Singing in the Rain," _I think. I used to study Monty Python when I was still under the impression that one day I would become "the world's greatest sidekick."

I let the bad memories slip away, like a hook was placed in their backs and dragged down a long, winding hall. It felt good, and each time I did this one more was pulled back and stayed back. It was a trick I learned from an early age to do, I just didn't do it very often. And after?

After I should probably make my move. Take the girl. Spare her the hell that was her home. Yes. I think I'll do that instead of wait.


	3. Loved Ones Lost

**This may not be the best thing to say for this chaspter, but I'll say it anyway: enjoy! :P**

* * *

We all sat expectantly. Daddy tasted the dinner, chewing it slowly like a food inspector. He swallowed and gave the curt nod. We all dug in. It had been a long day; nobody had seen each other since last nights' dinner.

Lisa was wearing a black leather studded jacket and black jeans. Her hair was topped with the usual short hair-cut, and a dark purple head band. Bart was wearing his usual orange shaggy shirt and jeans. Everybody else was wearing what they've seemed to wear my entire life.

He turned to me. I could feel the bruise on my face throbbing. "I have thought long and hard about what I did last night, Maggie. Do you know what I've decided?"

I shook my head no. Apologize? Not very likely.

"I have decided that we're going to go to your teacher and tell her whatever you got wrong is _right_."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt!" he slapped my already throbbing cheek, and I raised my hand to protect it. "We're going to tell her how smart you are, and fix this. Now. What is your teachers' name?" he turned my face to his with his meaty hand.

Shouldn't he know? "Mommy. Mommy's my teacher. Didn't you know I was home schooled?"

I looked at Mother. She was shaking her head no, looking at me with wide eyes. Daddy slowly turned his head to her. She stopped and stared. He let go of my face and grabbed the butter knife. Bart and Lisa did nothing but watch, horrified.

I remained frozen. All eyes were trained on that knife. "Marge. Why did you not tell me? Didn't this seem like an important subject to ask me about?"

"I did, Homey," I knew now how terrified she really was. How terrified we _all_ were. Mother didn't call daddy 'Homey' these days unless she was sweet talking him out of something. "I told you a long time ago, yes, but I told you. And ever since then, I thought you knew."

"You thought," he muttered, "_YOU THOUGHT_?!" he slammed his fists on the table. Then, without hesitation, he turned and punched me.

I could see stars, and a bright light. "Grandma?" I passed out.

_**3**_

I came to on the floor. There was screaming. Crashing sounds. After a second, though afterwards I wished I hadn't, my body adjusted to the pain and I heard, "_YOU KILLED HER YOU __**DICK**__!_"

I looked up. The first thing my eyes landed on was my older sister trembling in the corner, all traces of courage gone. She was where I usually hid, but she now looked like the young girl I once knew, the one who used to be "taught" by Daddy. Before she started using me as a practice dummy, finding an excuse so he would stop beating her. So he would start beating me.

Bart and Daddy were standing up, punching each other. And mother… all that I could see was blood on the table. My body ached as I got up, but I had to see this. I walked to her seat. I felt my head snap as I turned. The butter knife Daddy had held was in Momma's chest, right where her heart is. I gasped and turned to Daddy and Bart. They were throwing punches with such force that I could hear the fists hit the receivers' cheek.

I simply stood there, mesmerized. Not yet over the shock, but still knew what was going on. _I should run. I should run and never look back._

But of course I didn't. Finally, Daddy threw the hardest punch of the night, the final, making me jump. Bart landed on the floor, bruises already scattered along his face. Some were bleeding. Daddy turned to me.

I don't believe Lisa was over the shock, or would even try to help.

Bart was passed out.

Mommy was dead.

And I was in a room with a homicidal maniac.

"Get the shovel. We bury them _now_." He spoke through his teeth. His hands were now at his side, dripping with the blood of the ones I had never truly loved.

"What? Bart's still alive!"

"I know that, you stupid-"

"NO! _Mommy's dead because of you_!"

And I just ran. I didn't know where, I didn't know how I maneuvered outside, but I ran. He didn't follow.

I stopped in front of the Comic Book Store to take a breath. I had nowhere to go. Not really—

_Forest. Duh, the forest!_ _Where you have nowhere else to go, and if they haven't cut it down yet, you go to the forest._

I just began to run as fast as my legs would take me inside, and I tried to go deeper and deeper. It was an unwinding maze, made to get lost in. The deeper I went the darker it got, and soon I turned around. There were hoots and whispers all around me, coming closer with each step I took, every turn lead to yet another one, another shadow. I was running blindly now, running from the creatures lurking behind each shadow, ready to tear apart my—

I ran into something. Why should that phase me though, I've run into a lot of things. But this was soft and breathing. I began to scream, though it was more of ragged heaving. Tears were blurring my vision, so I couldn't see who (or what) it was. The image of Mother slumped over with Daddy's butter knife engraved in her chest came to me again and again, foreign and disturbing, like a heavy radio beam that blankets the signal you really want to pick up. I soon stopped struggling and melted into his (who/what's) arms.

_**3**_

I immediately snapped out of my mind trick when I heard somebody practically screaming, she was crying so hard, come tramping into the small clearing I had just entered. She ran right into me, the little girl I had just been planning to gut.

She kept stuttering, "H-he k-k-hilled her! He k-_killed_ her!" She looked up at me, first stunned, trying to wipe her eyes, and fell on the ground backing away.

I tried approaching Maggie, and in response she curled up into a ball, muttering "he killed her" under her breath. She began to tremble, from either the cold snap of the wind or fear.

I approached her carefully this time, slowly, like a zookeeper approaching the lion. She was in hysterics by now, and I wasn't _heartless_, I knew what pain was and still felt like a father at the most awkward of times. Well, I couldn't just leave her like…that.

"Shhh. It's alright," I felt rather awkward (had I not just imagined driving a steak knife into her heart two minutes ago?), but my fatherly side kicked in when she buried her head in my chest. "You're safe now. You're safe now." Deep down, I knew that this wasn't true. No child would cry this hard over such a little thing

(_don't_)

or run into the forest

(_hurt me_)

like this. I gathered the child into my arms properly, and, not being able to sweet talk over her dry heaves, settled for resisting the homicidal urge to drive a stake into her soul and held her.

_**4**_

I had no idea how long she stayed in my arms, but eventually sniffling replaced the tears. I set her on the ground, revealing her face (it had been such a blur, and she kept covering it). She had a bright purple bruise on her left cheek, and right below it was another swelling clump of raw and exposed flesh, and from the dried blood I knew she'd need medical attention for that. She was wearing a sky blue shirt, with black comfort (or sweat) pants. Instead of a bow, there was a blue ribbon in her hair, keeping the hair out of her eyes.

_(And look at his hair! It's dorkier than his brothers'!)_

"Now then. Who killed who?"

"Well," she sniffed, "who are _you_?"

"You may refer to me as Cecil. What happened?"

"I thought she told him! It wasn't my fault! She never told…" I thought she would burst into tears again—if that were possible with how many droplets had already came out of her eyes—but the child gathered her thoughts before going on. "I got a B+ on my test, but I'm home-schooled, so she's my teacher. Daddy said that we'd go and tell my teacher that I was right, though I wasn't, and I told him that Mother was my teacher. He turned and hit me—"

"He _what_?!"

"He hit me. He does it a lot though, so I'm used to it. Anyways-"

"No, no, nonono. You _don't_ get _used_ to being _hit_. If your father frigging _hits_ you, you tell somebody who will _help_. Do you understand?"

She looked at me, like you look at a man who just announced he was temporarily going to rule the world forever (I once knew a man in prison who kept saying that). "Why would you care?" she said rather dazed, "but when he punched me, I fell off my chair and blacked out. When I woke up, he and Bart were in a fight, Lisa was in the corner, and Mommy was dead. He had picked up a butter knife and . . . and stabbed her. I just stood there! I know I should've run, but—but…he knocked Bart out, and was going to make me bury him and Mommy alive!" fresh tears streamed down her face, "and ran here, into you. Now that you've heard my story," she leaned back onto her hands and gave a puzzled look, "have I ever met you before? You look familiar."

"Before, yes. We saw a glimpse of each other when you were…well god, just an infant."

"Then why haven't I seen you since? Been in jail?" She sort of smiled. A joke. It was only meant as a joke. Yet that joke snapped something inside of me, and it took all of my willpower to hold the fury back.

"Actually, yes. Do…you remember Sideshow Bob? If so, you may still not remember me, but I'm his brother. Younger brother, to be exact. No, no! It's OK," She had just gotten up, and was backing away. My plea hesitated her. "I'm not carrying any kind of weapons."

"I—but _you_! Why didn't you just kill me? I know how much you hated my family," she glared at me now, the look of sincerity and terror gone.

"I didn't kill you because I'm not heartless! And it was my _brother_ who hated you all. He's currently in some part of Italy," I waved it off, "with his family. But if you don't trust me, go back to that homicidal drunk." I knew that this would get her.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"There's much more in life that isn't fair, dear," I got up, wiped as much of the muck off as I could, and said, "Honestly though. You either go back, where you'll be beaten to death. Or come with a man who is willing to provide you with a home for now. It's your choice, but I need to be going

_(not really)_

now."

"_Wait! Don't leave me!"_ she ran up to me again, clutching my legs.

Looking down at her, I remembered that, as a child, nobody was there for me. Anytime I would tell Mother or whoever happened to be there would tell me to "get off of my legs and grow up." However, this child just saw her father cruelly kill her mother, so I might as well go easy on her.

"Alright, that's enough. Let's go, shall we?" She sniffed and gave another weak smile. She took my hand (straining to reach it), and began to hum _Castle on a Cloud_. I began to hum tunelessly, and both our little songs turned into the beginning of _The Waltz of Treachery: The Bargain_, from _Les Mis_.

I picked her up and held her instead.

* * *

**Does anyone think I should continue this? I've written a lot of it out already, but haven't fully finished it yet. I'll keep posting, but I'm only going to finish it if people are actually reading this. :P**


	4. How It All Came To Be

**Alright, I've written too much out already to NOT put anything up. **

**BTW—all rights go to Matt Groening, so . . . don't sue me? Even if I'm one out of many who have written Simpsons fics? Also, you may want to read SideshowCellophane26's story 'Life,' as it is a back-story for this, and is just plain awesome. Seriously. **

**Thank you for reading this pointless ramble.**

* * *

I suppose I was lucky. Either that or insane. From the hands of one insane lunatic to another, except this one less familiar. At least he wasn't drunk, right? But his brother being Bob, Bart's old arch-nemesis...

Well, we arrived at his apartment as soon as we were able to find our way back to the road. Which was nice, I guess. We were able to exchange stories. But, as I noticed, we both avoided the depressing ones

(_daddy, prison, our freakin' PAST)_

like in Hogwarts, we avoided the subjects like they avoid He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named. Instead, he brought up (though still depressing) how and why Lisa went Goth.

Unfortunately, he'd have to hear the story of the Black Market.

Well, I think it had all started after Moe had that heart attack. His bar had closed down, and pretty much ruined the lives of countless people. So everybody got together and tried to re-create the bar, but couldn't get _Duff Co._ to supply. So, Daddy had come up with the new "_Duff 102_," of which had, and this was an accident mind you, nicotine. He had misread the label on it, and dumped the entire thing in. Thanks to that, everybody was addicted to the alcohol, and was always drinking the stuff. This was about four years ago, and that's how Daddy came to be. Not only that, but the liquor made you _change_. Not just personality, but . . . you know how an evil scientist acts? Well, you kinda act like one of those.

He started beating us when it became too addictive, and he couldn't get enough of it. Lisa was the first to tick him off, and he had punched her as hard as he could. For simply pointing out he should throw away his beer bottles instead of leaving them for her and Mother to pick up. He had yelled at her exactly what he thought of her, and it wasn't very friendly. Pointing out a person is acting like a blonde (and I don't believe in those jokes; it's dumb and pointless. Plus, I'm a blonde) is enough to get you going.

Ever since that and the following day, she had lost everything. Now Bart…he had _voluntarily_ emptied the bottle Daddy had offered, just because neither knew what it did yet. Both had gone down together, and both had started beating me. The beer had other drugs added, and that way the person drinking it would either have to buy a helluva lot of it, or buy the drugs themselves. Well, Mother had forbidden Bart from drinking until he was 18, so he asked daddy what was in the beer and bought whatever the response was. From then on, it had just gotten worse.

Mother just curled up into her shell when daddy started beating us, and hasn't come out. _Won't_ come out. Will never get the _chance_ to come out. And I? I had just grown up the only way I knew how: by doing what my older sister used to teach me. Pick yourself up and move. Run if they keep throwing punches. But when daddy doesn't finish, he does it later.

And that was my story. Throughout the entire thing, I had kept my head down, occasionally looking up at Cecil's face. It had gone from silently nodding to wide eyes to jaw-drop-shock. By the time that I had finished, he was shaking his head in bewilderment.

"And I thought mine was bad," he muttered under his breath, obviously not meant to be heard.

"You get used to it."

"Yeah," his eyes widened. "I mean, I know what you . . ." he huffed, probably didn't want to use mean in the same sentence twice, "you mean. But being raised like that…you know I had been planning to kill your sister before Bob wrote me? He asked me to see what state your family was in, and I had been craving a…a _challenge_. Your sister had been a nice frenemy, but obviously she wouldn't have been able to foil me. But then I saw _you_. I didn't make my move because I knew that your father beat you children, but I didn't know he was capable of _this_," he was in a cabinet, taking out what must be a first aid kit, pointing to my face with rolled bandages.

"Well, if you truly knew Daddy, then you'd know the arm he carries." I didn't comment on the fact that he had literally just been thinking about thwacking my head with a mallet, or driving a steak kni—or drowning me, or whatever else you could do to kill.

"Very true. Hold still and bite down on this," he put a piece of plastic in my mouth, "this may sting a little. It's either infected, or it has swelled that big. How hard can he punch? Sorry, try to answer after this." He took an alcohol-soaked tissue

_are you sure Maggie? You may like it_

and gently dabbed it on my

_after drinking a few, the pain goes away. Where are you going? DON'T RUN AWAY FROM ME YOU LITTLE BITCH_

cheek. I winced from the sharp sting, but at least it was being tended to. Finally, he took out one of the bandages that little kids enjoy to compare to the regular size. He put it on my cheek with careful hands, like he was fixing a car that needed time to heal.

"There. Better?"

Already, the pain had mended down, and I finally realized I hadn't even thought of running away or suicide since I had run into him. I leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek, and blushed.

He just laughed. It was a good sound. The sound of happiness, what other kids made when I was sitting alone at lunch, and they were joking around. "Glad to hear it. Well, it's only-" he checked his watch, "8:57. And yes, I _am_ precise when it comes to time. Now it is time to discuss the matter of your family."

_Knew this was coming_

"I think we need to call the police, because-"

"_No!_"

"Your father murdered her, dear. You can't just expect it to stay hidden forever."

"_You're kind, the kindest that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting but no I'm not just gonna call the cops on my __**Daddy**__ because he'd come after us and kill us both and bury our limbs in the park heads in the forest and innards left out for the birds and—"_

"_Shh!_" he silenced me, and lifted his arm. I immediately shut my eyes, preparing.

When the punch didn't come, I slowly opened one eye. He was staring at me like I had just said 'God isn't real' to Mr. Flanders, and he believed it.

"I wasn't going to hit you," he said. The look that now spread across his face almost yelled out, "_What have they _done_ to her? I'm a crazy psychopath that spent years in jail, but I would never lay a hand on this girl because of her father, and yes! We _do_ have a long history! You saw the pictures in Mothers' closet, you know who they are! You knew he would turn out this way and your mother would just let him because she was a _MOUSE_ who let her husband beat her children and her and refused to arrest him and instead learned to sweet talk him and let her family go to HELL, and these people used to be your best friends, what happened to THAT?!" _indeed, I could see a picture of the woman and mother on the-

"When a person says 'shhh' he or she usually puts their finger on your mouth to silence you. Does your father hit you for everything you do and say?"

"Yes," I answered simply.

He opened his mouth and closed it. I guess something had shocked him or else he'd already have killed me in the forest. Maybe he was different than his brother. He _was_ the first person I can remember in a long time who actually kept up a conversation voluntarily with me, and was most _certainly_ the kindest. At least he was right now, time could change anything.

_Anyone_.

"I suppose the matter can wait until morning, the police here won't go this late anyway. Why don't I just show you to your room?"

True story. Ralph Wiggum's on the team now, and they never get anywhere with him. Especially since his father was one of the ones on that Black Market.

"Alright," I hopped off the table and followed him up the winding stairs. There was a long hallway, with two doors on each side as you walk in, a bathroom at the end, and beside that another room on your left. He led me to the right room

(_Ha-ha Bart. That sounds like one of thosedumber and more pathetic jokes you had told last month)_

"It isn't much, but it'll do for tonight. Do you need anything? Besides the essentials, like your toothbrush and comb? We're going to your house tomorrow, so I think you will survive tonight?"

I nodded. Even if I did have any of those, I'd just ignore them. There was too much to think about.

"Night-night," I whispered. My voice came out as an infants'.


End file.
